


Three Questions

by visiblemarket



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Depressing, M/M, also yes there is major character death, but i'm not sure if that makes the whole thing better or worse, i don't even know what this is, i mean it kinda is but, is what it is, it started off as a 'where the fuck has clint been' fic but uh, it's not that, which does not stick, worse probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3683865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Clint smiles to himself.</i>
</p><p>  <i>He’s never been happier in his entire life.</i></p><p>  <i>He’s determined to enjoy it while he can.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What was it like to love him? Asked Gratitude._
> 
> _It was like being exhumed, I answered, and brought to life in a flash of brilliance._

What he remembers, first of all, is the agony.

Every nerve burning, every bone breaking, his eyes closed because he can’t bear to see his skin shredded by the force of whatever it was that just hit him. 

Clint is no stranger to pain. Injury is a common denominator in just about every chapter of his life, the current one being no exception. He’s broken more bones than he can name, been shot at more times than he can remember. But this is—this is something else, this is back-breaking, breath-taking, _unnatural_. He’s dead, and he knows it, and he can barely think, can’t even cry out, or speak, or move.

The backs of his eyelids flare with red-hot bursts of electricity and he forces them open. If he’s going to die, at least he’s going go looking at _something_ , the bastard who did this to him, the freakin’ stars in the _sky_ , something. 

_Grey_. He sees _grey_ , edged with black: the sky, and it’s about to rain, and doesn’t that just fucking figure. 

Something touches him; something smooth and cool where his skin’s on fire, and he can’t help but flinch from it, and that sends a new burst of electric agony through the very core of his consciousness. 

He thinks he makes a sound. A gasp, a shout, he can’t hear himself, so it doesn’t matter, but for a brief second he can feel something other than pain; he inhales cool air and it quiets something in him, calms him for a moment, before the fire starts again.

It’s different this time; his body must be in shock, because he feels it distantly, like when he’d been hopped up on adrenaline and feels his shoulder dislocate: present, obvious, but momentarily insignificant. Wait. His shoulder. That was today. That was minutes ago, he’d jumped off the roof to another roof to avoid a target who’d been very, very angry at him and apparently a very, very good runner, and—his heart stutters. 

He feels it, feels it struggling against the vice-like force wrapping around it, like a balloon about to pop. His face is wet and he’s sure the rain has started but then he realizes, no, it’s him: the sweat from his forehead, the tears from his eyes. He clenches them shut; his chest heaves like it’s been ripped open and the wind around him and then there’s _pain_ , but real, human, familiar pain, and he almost sobs with relief from it. Someone’s slapped him across the face and startled another exhale from him. The grip on his heart relaxes; it responds by beating faster than it should, but god, he’s just so glad it is, so glad it’s there and still fighting.

He’s breathing again, too, heavy, desperate pants, and his chest aches with each one but it doesn’t _burn_ , doesn’t derail his thoughts, and he can concentrate enough to sense someone is very, very close to him. 

He forces his eyes open: he’s right, someone’s practically on top of him, but it’s not the target. It’s someone else, some guy in a suit, who’s shouting something at him. Clint can’t—well obviously he can’t _hear_ him, but he can’t even focus on his mouth enough to figure out what he’s saying, because the red-hot needle-pricks of pain have started up again, and—

And then it stops.

Everything, every ache and twinge and discomfort just _stops_ , and Clint’s flooded with such a rush of _relief_ that it every sensation, the cool air on his face, the rough gravel beneath him, the scent of gunpowder in the air, everything gets rerouted in his brain somehow to whisper _yes_ and _good_ and _fuck_ , someone’s touching him, pining his shoulders to the ground.

He looks up at who it is: suit, tie, dark hair, blue eyes. Entirely unfamiliar and _still talking at him_ , god, what the hell. Holding him down, and Clint can sort of focus now, despite the continued rush of almost orgasmic (what the fuck, _really_?) bliss pumping through his veins. 

_Don’t move_ , he seems to be saying. — _legs broken_ — _maybe spinal_ —and Clint rolls his eyes. Can’t be: his legs feel fine, the rest of him feels fine, certain parts of him that should _definitely_ not feel fine right now in particular feel…fine.

But he stays still anyway: the guy has a gun, and a couple of pounds on him, and Clint might be able to get out of this on a good day, but his limbs are limp with exhaustion and all he can think about is how nice it is to lie on a gravelly rooftop with a guy in a suit straddling his waist and pining him down.

He focuses back on the guy’s face: he’s not talking anymore, just staring, and Clint takes a breath as he stares back. 

_Can you hear me_? Clint sees him say, obviously enunciating, and Clint shakes his head a little. The back of his head scrapes against the gravel underneath him and he winces. His shoulder twinges as he does, and a dull ache begins to creep up his legs. He swallows. “I can—“ his throat feels dry as hell, and he has to swallow again. “Read your…” he stops to take a breath; it suddenly feels very necessary, and the man nods before Clint can finish, like he understands. Like he’s saving him from having to speak again, which: fuck that. “What happened?”

The man blinks, and looks away; he’s thinking, obviously, and Clint doesn’t have time for thinking, doesn’t have time for sugarcoating. He gathers up as much strength as he can manage and punches the guy in the thigh: it’s not his most impressive move, but it’s sure as hell going to leave a bruise, and at least he’ll have that to go out with. 

The guy just sighs; Clint sees his broad, white-shirt-clad shoulders move, and feels a strange, half-hearted flutter in his stomach. _You fell…guy chasing you hit you with some kind of…ray_.

“A ray? Like a…ray-gun?”

 _No_. 

Clint glares at him; the guy looks back, calm and dispassionate, and keeps his mouth shut. 

They stay like that for a while: Clint trying to will his body back under enough control to throw the guy off, said guy looking down at him with occasional flickers of concern lurking behind his ice blue eyes. 

The rain starts; the guy whips off his jacket and lays it over Clint’s torso, leans over to try to keep the worst of the weather off Clint’s face, but it doesn’t matter. The cold begins to seep into his bones, and pushing out the the warm, hazy glow of no pain and replacing it with the impending realization that he has, in fact, broken both legs. And dislocated his shoulder. And thrashed around on top of gravel long enough to have prickling, bleeding cuts up and down his arms and back. He starts shivering, which does him no favors in terms of all of the above.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, maybe a little too loudly, but the guy nods in sympathy and, for some reason, squeezes Clint’s shoulders. 

Not long after that, but about the same time where pain has, once again, become the dominant sensation Clint is feeling, the breeze that had been buffeting at Clint’s wet hair becomes an all-out gale, and it takes Clint much too long to realize that it’s because a large, black helicopter has landed just a few feet away from them.

Black helicopters are not, in Clint’s experience, ever really _great_ news for him. And the trend continues now, because he’s alone, suddenly, no warm weight holding him down, no sturdy hands on his shoulders. The rain beats down on his face as two blue uniforms poke and prod at him. They try to move him and his shoulder screams in protest and he reaches for something, _anything_ to ground him, like he’s some stupid kid reaching for a teddy bear or a blanket or a mother. 

All he grasps is air, at first, and gravel, which digs into his already bleeding palm. 

But then there’s warm skin, a hand, someone’s fingers around his, the hint of a once-crisp sleeve against his wrist. It’s familiar. He’s not alone. Everything aches and his skin still stings but he tightens his grip and looks around the medic who’s hooking him up to something clear and liquid and sees _him_ again, still there, still watching him with soft, tired eyes. 

He holds Clint’s hand till the drugs and exhaustion and the rhythmic vibrations of the rotor drag him to sleep, and maybe for a while after that.


	2. Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What was it like to be loved in return? Asked Joy._
> 
> _It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I replied. To be heard after a lifetime of silence._

The stew on the stove is from one Phil’s recipes, and Clint always feels a little sentimental when he makes it, especially when Phil’s not there.

But it’s a Sunday night, and Phil’ll be home in two days, and there’s worse things to come home to, Clint thinks. He’ll have the kitchen cleaned by then, at least, and dinner on the table, and home-baked bread warming in the oven. Clint only _barely_ wants to gag how stupidly domestic their little arrangement has become. 

Phil’s hasn’t even been in town for two weeks and Clint hasn’t seen the inside of his apartment in at least as long, but he likes it here. He likes Phil’s bed, which is larger than Clint’s and warmer, somehow, even when Phil’s not there. He likes Phil’s closet, with the steady monochromatic line of suits, the tidily hung ties. The shiny black shoes, the carefully framed war propaganda posters. Phil’s got four bookshelves, one row of which is filled with DVDs and the occasional VHS. He’s got a flatscreen TV and a DVR and a couch that just so happens to be Clint’s favorite couch in the world. It once faced stiff competition from the squashy brown thing in Phil’s office, but Clint has now had six separate orgasms on the red plush monstrosity that takes up at least half of Phil’s living room, so it wins. 

And, of course, Phil’s apartment has _Phil_ , at least most of the time. Even when it doesn’t, there’s hints of him everywhere, not just in the obvious things like his suits and his shoes and his ties, but in the little things. The coffeemaker on a timer; the neatly folded towels and bedsheets in the linen closet; the large crocheted blanket Phil’s mom had apparently made, which clashes horribly with the red couch but will probably outlive them all. The enduring detritus of Phil Coulson’s life and history and Clint’s right in the middle of it, allowed to touch and covet and claim some possession. 

He’d been a little in love with Phil for years before anything happened; just a soft, secret little crush he kept tucked away, deep in his chest. Just a warm little glow he felt when Phil smiled at him, bumped their shoulders together, fell asleep against him on flights. It’d been enough, just having Phil close to him, just having him there and unattainable and untouchable. Because Phil dated women, Phil _loved_ women, and if he occasionally flirted with a man as part of a cover, or if his hands lingered on Clint just a little bit too long to be just friendly, well, that was something worth building a fantasy on. But it was never supposed to be real, never supposed to go beyond the occasional dream or fuzzy feeling. 

If Clint had _had_ to imagine anything happening between them, he would’ve thought it’d be a desperate, life-affirming kind of fuck after a near death experience. That kind of thing wasn’t rare in their line of work, for people to cross the usual boundaries and sexualities when they had to. Sometimes a warm body was a warm body, and in Clint’s darkest, loneliest nights, he imagined Phil that way, flushed with adrenaline and fear, dragging Clint to him and forcing their mouths together and turning him around and over a desk or against a wall. 

But Clint had known Phil wouldn’t. And Phil hadn’t. 

Phil had eaten dinner with him, one of a thousand meals they’d shared together; Phil had gotten drunk with him, and listened to yet another of Clint’s stupid, pointless, drunken rambles; Phil had walked him home to his apartment and tucked him into bed and stayed when Clint asked. 

Phil had been there the next morning. Phil had stood in his too-bright kitchen, wrapped his hand around the back of Clint’s neck, and kissed him. It’d been sudden but also, it hadn’t: Phil had looked him straight in the eye, and smiled, and kissed him. Clint’s heart had stopped, his breath had caught, and he’d kissed Phil back. And that had been that, really. 

And that was— _this_ : Clint feeling more at home in Phil’s apartment than he ever has in his own, his favorite t-shirts and sweatpants folded up in the drawer Phil’s cleared out for him, the boxes of cereal that have magically started turning up in Phil’s pantry, the six-packs of beer Phil’s refrigerator, the sudden willingness Phil has to leave work before 8 PM. The banal realities of Phil’s life slotting in neatly around Clint’s, the way his body tucked up behind Clint’s in bed. Phil’s arm wrapped around his waist when he slept. Phil’s lips against the back of his neck when he woke up. 

And Clint making dinner, even when Phil’s not home, and sleeping in Phil’s bed, when Phil’s hundreds of miles away, and jerking off to the thought of the _fucking glorious_ welcome home sex they’re going to have when Phil gets back.

Clint smiles to himself.

He’s never been happier in his entire life.

He’s determined to enjoy it while he can.


	3. Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What was it like to lose him? Asked Sorrow. There was a long pause before I responded:_
> 
> _It was like hearing every goodbye ever said to me—said all at once._

Phil’s alarm is set at 5:30 AM.

It hasn’t rung in years; Phil was always up before it rang and turned it off.

These days, Clint lets it blare itself out; he can’t hear it anyway, and by six, which is when he’s used to waking up, it’ll have turned itself off (and probably pissed off the neighbors, but he can’t bring himself to care).

Phil’s coffeemaker flips itself on; it’s on a timer, and Clint hasn’t gotten around to turning it off. He doesn’t fill it with coffee grounds anymore, though; he did it once and woke to the smell of coffee in the air and Phil on the pillow next to him and actually _forgotten_ for a good half hour, and, well—it had not been a very good morning. 

It’s not a very good morning today, either. He’s had the dream again—(the dream in question: him and Phil in bed, tangled up in each other, breaths hot between them. Bliss, and warmth, and a sharp, sharp ache in Clint’s chest, till he reached over and wrapped his arm around Phil’s chest and felt the blood soaking through his shirt.)

He showers; the water’s always too hot or too cold at this hour, and he hasn’t figure out why, yet. He’d call the super, but Phil’d always been better at that. He doesn’t think he even has the guy’s number. But it’s fine. Water’s too hot, too cold, it’s fine; he doesn’t want to linger there, he has to move on. 

He goes to work. It sucks. A strange, pathetic obstacle course of people he’s known for years who can’t meet his eyes, and those who can, those who stare at him with the kind of fear, outrage, and low-simmering hatred that he’s used to seeing at the other end of a weapon, not while getting a damn sandwich in the mess hall.

Nat’s never around. Steve’s a bigger mess than he is, if better at hiding it. Fury’s been avoiding him for months. And that’s the worst of it, somehow. Clint gets it, he does; he’s unstable and a security risk, Fury’s too smart to get caught up in his downward spiral. But if he’s trying at all anymore, and he _is trying_ , it’s only because of Fury, now. 

Because when it's come down to it, people had offered him things, for information, for his life. But Clint had known the score: before SHIELD and Nick Fury he was a dumb kid with a target on his back as well as in front of him, and after he was a dumb kid with good men and women willing to die for him, and he'd sure as hell been willing to return the favor. He's had a family; having a team is better. You can pick your team, for one. 

And he had. He'd picked SHIELD, he’d picked Fury, he’d picked loyalty instead of self-interest, he’d picked Phil and love instead of a life where he’d never feel the pain of losing it. He’d made the right choices, the choices _good people_ make, and he’d gotten totally screwed anyway. He wishes he could say he was surprised.

*

He makes it to the range eventually. There’s nothing much else to do these days.

Someone else comes in. Clint ignores them, and hopes to be afforded the same courtesy in return. He is, for the most part, but once he’s out of arrows and out of bullets, and breathing heavier than he probably should be, someone clears their throat behind him and he almost jumps out of his own skin.

“Barton."

He looks up. Blinks, as he tries to remember the guy’s name. “Rumlow?"

“Yeah. You okay, man? You look a little—“ Rumlow waves his hand around, like that means something.

Clint shrugs. “I feel a little…” he tries to approximate the move, and Rumlow laughs, surprised. 

“Tough day at the office?” 

Clint stares at him, but Rumlow looks…sincere enough. “Yeah. Yeah, you could say that."

Rumlow shakes his head and takes the gun he’d forgotten he was holding out of his hand. “C’mon."

“C’mon where?"

“I’m buying you a drink."

“I don’t want—"

“But you need one."

Well. Clint can’t really argue with that.

*

“Shame about Coulson.” It’s the first thing Rumlow has said in hours.

Clint nods. “Yeah.”

“Worked with him a couple times. Good man. Great handler.” 

“Yeah."

“SHIELD’s a—"

“I don’t wanna talk about work, man."

Rumlow gives a slow, thoughtful nod, or maybe Clint’s imagining things, before reaching over and bumping his beer glass against Clint’s. “I hear you."

They drink in silence for another hour. Or maybe only half. Or maybe it’s two. Clint loses track. But they’re done before the bar closes, and Rumlow helps him out the door, hails him into a cab, and punches him on the shoulder, like they’re friends, suddenly. “Again tomorrow?” he says.

Clint shrugs. “Yeah. Yeah, why not?"

*

Clint wakes up at 5:00 AM the next morning.

He unplugs the alarm.

He stares up the ceiling.

He doesn’t go to work.

*

The building isn’t there anymore. There’s a community garden now, full of scraggly flowers grasping for what little ground they’ve claimed. He stares at the sunflowers for a while, and feels lighter, somehow, than he has in months.

“What were you hoping to find?”

He doesn’t look back; isn’t even going to bother speaking, but he wouldn’t want to be _rude_. He smiles to himself. It hurts. “You.”

“Well then, good job?” 

Clint laughs. “You’re not really here."

“Where am I, then?"

The thing is, Clint doesn’t know. Clint doesn’t know in the real, basic, ugly way, or in the broader, metaphysical, spiritual way. He doesn’t know where the body is buried. He doesn’t know where Phil _is_. The whole church-going, faith-having thing’d never really been important to him before, and it seems shitty and dishonest to pretend to believe in it now. 

He sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. 

“It was raining.” He half-turns to look behind him, but thinks better of it and drops his gaze to the pavement. “When we met."

“I remember."

Clint shakes his head. “Of course you do."

“You were so scared."

“I was dying!” Clint says, and laughs; it’s ridiculous, but he _laughs_ , because—he’s not even sure why. “Jeez. I mean, a guy’s allowed to be scared. When he’s _dying_ , y’know?"

“I wouldn’t have let you die.” It may be Clint's imagination (well, it _is_ Clint’s imagination), but he sounds _hurt _, as if he’s insulted that Clint would suggest otherwise.__

__“I know,” Clint says, because he does. “How ‘bout you?"_ _

__“What about me?"_ _

__“Were you scared?"_ _

__“Nick was there."_ _

__Clint shakes his head, and frowns. “Not what I asked, man."_ _

__“Yes. I was scared."_ _

__Clint swallows around the lump in his throat. “I should’ve been there."_ _

__“Yes,” says the voice behind him. "You should have."_ _

__It hits him then, not for the first time, not for the last, that he'd known Phil for more than fifteen years. They hadn't been together all that time, hadn't been in love for most of it, not really, but there's always been a piece of him that belonged to Phil and it'll probably always be there, no matter what he does. He wonders if Phil knew. Wonders if there was an equivalent part of Agent Phil Coulson that was forever tied to that stupid, malnourished, idiot kid whose life he’d saved more times than Clint could count._ _

__“Yeah,” he says, nodding to himself. “Yeah. I can’t do this anymore."_ _

__“Clint—"_ _

__“I’m done,” he says, and remembers. “I mean. I’m sorry. I am. But—“ he shrugs to himself. “I’m done."_ _

__“If you say so,” and there’s a smug, vindictive tinge to it, and Clint nods to himself. Yeah. Phil would never have said something that stupid._ _

__He takes his hands out of his pockets, turns on his heel, and walks away._ _

____

*

SHIELD falls.

Fury dies. 

Clint watches it from a shitty five-stool bar in Waverly, Iowa, finishes his seventh drink of the day, and goes home.

**Author's Note:**

> I read [this](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/101093319976/aseaofquotes-lang-leav-three-questions) back in October and started this fic and gave up on it because, grim, but I found it again and, well, here we are.


End file.
